


For Reasons Wretched and Divine

by winterfelled



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Don’t ask me to explain how anyone is related I cannot answer you, F/M, Falling In Love, Sansa and Arya are the only Starks, playing hard and fast with this family tree, victoria au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfelled/pseuds/winterfelled
Summary: Alone again with only her thoughts for company, Sansa thinks to the last time she'd seen her cousin Jon. Years at least, maybe four or five, when the both of them had been at the cusp of childhood, teetering at the very edge of the necessity of growing up. He had been pale and gangly, with a mop of unruly black curls and a brooding, serious stare. Sansa could hardly remember him speaking more than ten words in that deep German brogue of his the entirely of that trip, none certainly to her. How they would be a good match after such an awkward, stilted encounter completely eludes her.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 61





	1. Sansa

The faintest slivers of light peek through the gap in her curtains, midnight come and gone, and yet Sansa does not think she's slept since.

"I can practically hear your mind whirring a hundred miles a minute," Arya grumbles from beside her, eyes still closed but face smooth in a way only the early morning can bring. Prying open eye open at a time, Arya turns to Sansa and affixes her with a look of mild exasperation. "What troubles you so, sister?"

Sansa sighs, turning onto her back and staring resolutely up at the ceiling, still silent despite her sister's askance for an answer. Her fingers clench the blanket draped at her waist and it takes another moment for her to gather her jumbled thoughts enough to respond. "Today is my eighteenth nameday."

"And water is wet and the sky is blue," Arya drawls, sitting up on her elbows. When Sansa shoots her a look, Arya huffs and rolls her eyes back at her. "What? I thought we were stating facts."

"This is serious Arya!" Sansa replies, sitting up and back on the mountain of pillows she kept on her bed. After seventeen years of sleeping in her mother's bed, it had taken longer than Sansa had thought to get used to sleeping alone in her rooms at Bunkingham, and more often than not she drags her sister from her own rooms to keep her company at night. "Lord Royce has been able to delay Parliament for as long as he could but no doubt I will be forced to propose at their earliest convenience."

"God truly save the Queen then," Arya snorts just as a knock resounds at the door, saving herself from a swift kick in the shins just as Sansa calls for her maids to enter.

"Oh happy nameday my sweet girl," her mother enthuses, rushing towards her and kissing the crown of her hairline just as Septa Mordane crosses the room to open the curtains. For a moment, Sansa is blinded by the garish light, but then she is staring out into the gardens, the sun high and the sky so completely blue and devoid of a single cloud. It's a beautiful day by all accounts, but it does nothing but fill Sansa's stomach with dread.

"Lord Royce is in the parlor waiting to speak with you as soon as you're able to receive him," Septa Mordane tells Sansa as her lady's maids help her from her bed and start with her corset and dress. "And your Uncle Benjen has sent word that he'll be traveling from Belgium to join the celebrations."

"Truly?" Arya gasps, scrambling up from the bed, the flimsy nature of her nightdress lapping at her ankles as she jumps up and down at the thought of her favorite uncle visiting. Sansa smiles softly as she watches her sister flit around the room, babbling about their Uncle and his stories while their mother sharply scolds for her to slow down, envying Arya's vivacious and wild nature and wishing for a moment that she could be just as free.

"—And what do you think of it, Sansa?" Her mother says suddenly and Sansa blinks up at her in surprise. She had lost herself in her thoughts and hadn't realized her mother had taken the brush from her maid and started twisting the copper colored locks into an intricate chignon at the nape of her neck. "Would you like that?"

"Like what mother?" 

"To marry cousin Jon of course!" Arya interrupts from across the room, her tone earning the ire of Septa Mordane as she urges her to maintain her composure. "No doubt that is what Uncle Benjen is making his trip for, to convince you to propose."

"Arya do be serious," Sansa chides, resisting to roll her eyes as it was quite unbecoming of a queen. Instead she affixes her sister with a hard look. "Jeyne if you're done with my hair, I'd like to be alone for a moment. Septa, please inform the Prime Minister I will receive him now."

"Of course your Majesty," Septa Mordane says, bowing her head slightly as she and Sansa's maids file out of her rooms. Her mother plants one last kiss on her cheek before leaving too, exasperatedly calling for Arya when it looked like her sister was keen to stay and stir up more trouble.

Alone again with only her thoughts for company, Sansa thinks to the last time she'd seen her cousin Jon. Years at least, maybe four or five, when the both of them had been at the cusp of childhood, teetering at the very edge of the necessity of growing up. He had been pale and gangly, with a mop of unruly black curls and a brooding, serious stare. Sansa could hardly remember him speaking more than ten words in that deep German brogue of his the entirely of that trip, none certainly to her. How they would be a good match after such an awkward, stilted encounter completely eludes her.

"Your Majesty," she hears Lord Royce address her once she'd entered her adjoining rooms, bowing with flourish. "May I offer you my sincerest felicitations on the day of your birth."

"Thank you Lord R," Sansa smiles genuinely as she takes a seat in her wingback. "Please sit." She says, gesturing to the loveseat across from her.

"Thank you Ma'am," Lord Royce says before settling. "As you know, I've spoken to Parliament and they are quite insistent that now we begin speaking of your marriage."

"Must we speak of this now?" Sansa sighs as she stares out the window, resolutely avoiding Lord Royce's gaze. "I had hoped for one moment today without someone mentioning my impending nuptials. I've promised Parliament time and time again that when a acceptable prospect is presented, I will consider it.

"Apologies my Queen," Lord Royce replies, bowing his head once more. "But we've delayed this conversation as long as possible, Ma'am, but I'm afraid it's time we seriously begin to consider prospects. Lord Harry Hardyng of France will be attending your party—

"Not today Lord R," Sansa tells him. "Tomorrow, I promise I will listen to you and Parliament of the tote of men foisted upon me, but today I simply want to enjoy my nameday."

"As you wish Ma'am," Lord Royce nods once before finishing with any loose ends and leaving her alone once more.

Once she hears the lock clink, Sansa slumps back in her seat, rubbing her temples with the anticipation of a headache. It seems that even with her appointment as Queen, she feels no more free. She thought it would be different, finally out from her mother's wing and able to flourish, but Sansa feels more suffocated than not.

Her parents' marriage had not been a love match. Rarely are those of people of their station. But love grew, stone by stone as her mother likes to remember fondly. Her parents' relationship had bloomed a romanticism in Sansa's heart and now all she desires was a true love of her own.

But no one will ever marry me for love, she thinks to herself morosely, allowing one last moment to dwell on such things before time and country called for their queen. Sighing one last time, she calls for her secretary to bring in the boxes.

Romanticism be damned, she had a country to run.

•

"Happy nameday, sweet niece."

Sansa turns. It had been a little under an hour since the festivities had started and only now has her Uncle decided to reveal himself to her. She is breathless, drunk on champagne and the merriment of dance, so she forgets herself for a moment as she throws her arms around him in a warm embrace.

"Uncle Benjen!" She exclaims fondly, falling back on the balls of her feet as he takes her hand and plants a kiss on her knuckles. "Did you just arrive? Have you seen Mama and Arya yet?"

"Only in passing, I wanted to wish the Queen a happy nameday first," he tells her, and Sansa can't help but grin. "Save me a set won't you, niece?"

"After Lord Hardyng, I promise."

Benjen's smile becomes contemplative as he appraised her slowly and while Sansa might have been pleasantly relaxed by the champagne, she had enough wit to her to know when she was being appraised.

"And how do you find this Lord Hardyng, hmm?"

"Honestly uncle!" Sansa huffs in frustration, her voice rising with her ire. "I know what your doing! I am not discussing my marriage tonight! All I wanted was a bit of fun!"

"Sansa!" Her mother hisses, coming from behind her and squeezing her shoulders in warning. "Maybe it's time you retired?"

"No," Sansa says resolutely, shaking her mother hands off her and ignoring the murmurs of the ballroom as she strode up to Lord Hardyng. "You promised me a set?"

Lord Hardyng nods his head before smirking enough that it takes most of Sansa's limited willpower not to roll her eyes. He takes her hands and the music resumes and Sansa forces herself to enjoy it instead of wondering what her mother and uncle were whispering about in the corner of the room.

•

The next morning greets Sansa with a hangover.

She groans, turning over in her sheets and burying her face in her pillows when Septa Mordane came in and pulled back the curtains.

"Time to get up meine Königin," Septa Mordane hums, pulling back the covers so Sansa is forced to face the harsh realities of the day. "Your Uncle and mother are waiting with your ladies in the parlor for you."

"Where's Arya?" Sansa mumbles, mouth full of cotton as she squints at where her lady's maids were airing out her clothes before gently coaxing her up from bed. 

"Your hellion of a sister announced this morning that she would go riding and that no one could stop her," Septa Mordane answers like it's a bitter taste in her mouth. Sansa holds in the urge to giggle at the thought, allowing herself to be dressed without much thought until the weight of the gown registers upon the the last pull of the corset.

"What's the occasion Septa?" 

"A Queen must always look her best," she responds as Sansa instructs her dresser to her hair half up and half down, a style favored by her mother's German roots. When Jeyne is done, draping a chain around her neck and adjusting it so that the emerald in the center sits snuggly between her collarbones, Septa Mordane turns to her, "Oh you look just like your mother did when she was your age, Liebes."

"Thank you Septa," Sansa smiles, smoothing over her skirts one final time before rising. "Shall we go then?" 

"Yes your grace," Septa Mordane nods as she and Jean follow Sansa out. She ignores the pounding headache and the distinct roll of her stomach as she enters the parlor, her mother and uncle raising from their seats to bow their heads in respond.

"Good morning Mama, Uncle," she greets them placidly, despite still being cross with their insistence to talk over her marriage. "Were you waiting long?"

"Not long at all, Niece," Benjen answers. "Your mother and I were just discussing your accomplishments with the piano forte. Would it be any inconvenience to you to play for your dear old Uncle?"

"Not at all," Sansa replies though her head would beg to differ. She strides to the far end of the room, settling down at her piano and finding Schubert's Piano Sonata on the stand at ready. She flexes her fingers instinctively, foot on pedal, and lets the music carry her. It's a soft, almost unassuming tone, like much of Schubert's pieces, and yet it sets Sansa's heart into a gallop, her fingers expertly trailing the music at a pace perhaps not required for a ballad such as this.

A door opens and the sound only registers at the back of Sansa's mind, an almost afterthought as she continues to lose herself in her music. Her brows furrow in concentration, eyes steady on the notes, and perhaps her single-mindedness is what prevents her from noticing the shadow of a man behind her until she feels the faintest of touches along the slope of her shoulder.

Sansa startles, her fingers lifting off the piano in a garble of notes and she looks up into the eyes grey like dove feathers.

"Cousin Jon!" She addresses him on a high pitched gasp, her wits temporarily lost to her. "When did you arrive?"

Jon regards her with a perplexing look in his gaze, a amalgam of emotions Sansa can't decipher. He's different than the last time they'd seen each other, more hard edges and chilly confidence to shroud him.

"My Uncle requested my brother and I come for a visit. We've only just arrived," He answers her, matter-of-fact. Sansa readies herself to express her welcome when he raises one eyebrow in mocking contempt. "Your piano forte could use some work. When was the last time you practiced?"

Sansa closes her mouth, feeling properly chastised as she levels him with an icy glare. He responds in kind with a sort of gloating smirk and Sansa tries not to let her affect her so.

(It does, immensely, but she isn't about to tell him that.)


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's mind wanders back to the moment he'd first laid eyes on her again after so many years apart. He remembers in that moment the gentle slope of her neck, the sharp profile of her cheekbones, the copper colored tendrils of hair glistening in the peaking sunlight. Seeing her again, it was like all the stale air residing in the bottom of his lungs had been finally released and he could breathe for the first time in years. Nothing had ever made him feel so light, or so scared for that matter.

It had been five days.

Five extremely perturbing and all round anxiety ridden days since he and his brother had arrived to England after a rather impromptu summons by their uncle; a mere twenty-four hours since he strode up to the woman he was meant to be wooing and instead insulted her piano forte; and only a few minutes since the maid had left his room with the message that her Majesty, the Queen, requested his presence for a private tour of the grounds.

"You must be more charming," Aegon says rather unhelpfully as Jon starts messing with his cravat, hastily pulling on a coat and trying to appear as presentable as possible. "And try to compliment her this time."

Jon rolls his eyes, choosing to simply grunt in lieu of a proper response. He's never been good with words, preferring to express his feelings with actions. But something tells him Sansa wouldn't appreciate her time being wasted watching him win her fencing competitions. 

"Dear brother, you look fine," Aegon sighs, getting up from where he lounged on the chaise and placing both hands on Jon's shoulders in what should have been a calming matter if Jon didn't feel so tightly wound. "What is making you so nervous?"

Jon's mind wanders back to the moment he'd first laid eyes on her again after so many years apart. He remembers in that moment the gentle slope of her neck, the sharp profile of her cheekbones, the copper colored tendrils of hair glistening in the peaking sunlight. Seeing her again, it was like all the stale air residing in the bottom of his lungs had been finally released and he could breathe for the first time in years. Nothing had ever made him feel so light, or so scared for that matter.

"She's so lovely," he murmurs at last. Aegon gives him a smile, squeezing his shoulders once reassuringly before releasing him. 

"Good, tell her that," he tells Jon as he leads him to the door. "Now go, you shouldn't make Her Majesty wait."

Jon nods, running his hand through his wild hair once more to tame it before quickly turning towards the door.

"Oh and Jon?" His brother calls out just as Jon motions to turn to door handle. 

He looks over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Give her a flower," Aegon grins. "Show her you're romantic and not just some foreign antisocial brute."

Jon rolls his eyes at that and leaves the room with the sound of Aegon's laughter following him down the hall. Though, Jon muses silently as he all but sprints out of the palace and down the steps leading to the gardens, it wasn't such a bad idea to do.

•

"What do you think of the gardens?"

"They're very beautiful," Jon answers, hands behind his back as he and Sansa take a stroll through the hedges, stopping at a particularly pleasing rose bush. They'd taken a long, winding route through the gardens at Buckingham, and most of it had been filled with idle pleasantries though Jon hoped they soon would be comfortable enough to talk in more depth. Looking at their surroundings, he stops to touch the petal of a fully bloomed rose and turns to her questioningly. "I was under the impression that winter roses were not indigenous to London?"

Sansa smiles softly, the gentleness of such an expression causing Jon's heart to jump in his chest and skip a beat. "Quite a keen eye you have. My father gifted my mother winter roses upon their engagement. I thought it would be a nice memory to keep of him for my mother after he passed so I asked our Uncle Benjen to bring a bushel and some seeds to bring back with him from Belgium. They've grown beautifully since."

Jon responds to such with a smile, picking a rose fully in bloom and presenting it to her. "For you," he says, wishing he had to the words to properly articulate how her beauty was incomparable, even to the most beautiful of flowers. Had he been Aegon perhaps, the words would not have gotten lodged in his throat. But she smiles nonetheless, her cheeks gaining a rosy hue as she holds the flower close.

They start walking again in silence, Jon watching from the corner of his eye as Sansa twirled the rose between her fingers, her expression soft and distant. The way her lips pull up at the corners the tiniest bit, Jon wishes nothing more than to lean over and kiss her.

He shakes his head immediately.

Don't be stupid, he admonishes himself while turning his eyes back on their path, embarrassment flaring in his chest. Sansa is a Queen, albeit the most beautiful Queen he's ever laid eyes on, and certainty that affords more than the less than proper thoughts of a second son with a defunct title.

His eyes wander again, though he's careful not to make direct eye contact with Sansa again lest the burning of his cheeks give him away when he spots her mother painting in the distance and Arya—

"Your sister...is she fencing?!" Jon exclaims suddenly when Arya comes into view, practicing with a saber and a stuffed mannequin with an expert parry. Sansa's eyes find where his are fixated and out of the corner of his eyes, he sees her smile widen in what appears to be pride.

"Yes, she's very talented. Before he passed away, father employed her a fencing master, Syrio Forrel of Spain, and he taught her everything to know about what he liked to call 'water dancing'."

"And your mother approves of this?"

"Well she doesn't have much of a choice," Sansa answers, her chin raised regally. "I am head of the State and if I allow my sister to pursue whatever her heart desires, who is she, or anyone for that matter, to tell me I'm wrong?" 

Damn it, Jon thinks as his heart stutters almost to a stop once more. She is nothing at all like what he expected. 

•

"Tell me your going to ask her to dance."

Jon takes another sip of his champagne, turning his head ever so slightly to acknowledge his Uncle Benjen and his perpetual disapproving stare.

"She's been in the arms of that pompous Hardyng all night," Jon mutters, this time swigging down the alcohol with vigor. It burns his throat uncharacteristically, settling at the bottom of his stomach like a heavy, jagged stone.

"Because Lord Hardyng understands the way into a lady's heart is to make yourself the center of her attention," Uncle Benjen replies, deftly removing the glass of champagne from Jon's hand, much to Jon's chagrin. "Unlike you, dear nephew, who has decided to sulk in a corner."

"I don't dance," Jon replies, feeling as petulant as Uncle Benjen is implying him to be.

He can practically hear his Uncle roll his eyes as he is not so subtly pushed forward. "You will tonight and any night she gets even the slightest of urges. Now go before you ruin everything I've so carefully planned."

Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes, adjusting his lapels before striding to where Sansa and Lord Hardying had just finished their set. Before the sandy-haired fool can ask her for another, Jon clears his throat and not so subtly steps in front of the man into Sansa's direct line of vision.

"Would I be permissible to cut in and ask for your next set?" He asks, the alcohol fueling his bravery as he stares deeply into her eyes. Her own gaze flutters as she nods yes, holding her hand for him to take as the strings start to play some dulcet tone.

"You took your time in asking me," she tells him as he puts his hands on the curve of her waist and begins to sway her with as much expertise he can manage being almost drunk and a terrible dancer. "I thought you'd be permanently stuck to that wall."

He raises an eyebrow, annoyance and jealously fueling his already bad mood. "I am surprised you even noticed what I was doing, seeing as you seemed fully occupied with Lord Hardyng's attentions all night."

Sansa's cheeks pink slightly but her resolve is unwavering as she lifts her chin with a sniff. "I am meant to be polite to all my guests and unlike you, Lord Hardyng was brave enough to ask me for a set."

"Are you calling me a coward?"

Her gaze turns into a glare at the baulk in his tone no doubt, though Jon can't help but think how beautiful she looks with fire in her gaze to match the brilliant copper of her hair.

"Yes," she grits out bravely and behind the cloud of anger obscuring his mind, Jon admires her for it. "You were supposed to ask me to dance three sets, not Lord Hardyng."

Jon's expression softens as she leaves him for a turn. When he pulls her back, he holds her a tad closer for lack of propriety and marvels at the rosy hue her cheeks take on. 

"I wasn't trying to insult you," he tells her after a deep exhale to chill his temper. "As you can see I am no good with words."

She smiles slightly but sincerely. "It is a good thing I am Head of State then, you'll never have to speak to the public unless you want to."

Jon's heart flutters at the implications of her words but does not press for clarification. Instead he twirls her with more vigor, his mind resolute that if he would do anything she asked of him, even if it meant that he'd be dancing quite terribly until the night was over.

"The set is nearly over," she whispers so softly he almost doesn’t hear her over the music lulling itself into a soft sort of ending. “Shall I call for Lord Hardyng to finish out the night?”

Jon grips her around the waist tighter, holding her close, staring into the deep crystalline blue of her eyes, like coastal shores of Mallorca, where his step-mother’s childhood were spent.

“If it pleases you, I’d like to have one more dance.”

Sansa grins. Jon thinks he’d might like to spend his entire life making sure such an expression never leaves her face.

•

When Jon wakes the next morning, head pounding and mouth tasting distinctly of salt and bad decisions, his memory begins to fade in pieces. First there’s Sansa. The gold brocade of her dress. The drops of pearls draped around her neck. The sharpness of the glare fixated on him as he put his foot in his mouth, time and time again. Jon thinks if by the end of this, if she does decide to propose to him, he will be spending quite some time affixed with such a look. Aegon likes to say Jon has about as much charm as a lumbering buffoon. Jon hates to admit in some aspects that his brother might be right.

But he had made her smile and laugh and blush and each of these fragmented memories makes his heart race to a beat he’s felt with no other woman. She’s very easy to fall in love with, Jon thinks, pulling back the covers with a groan as the morning sun peaks in through the large bay windows. And given the chance, Jon can see himself falling very quickly.

“Did you have a nice night, brother?” Aegon says as he comes bustling in with the maid. He’s grinning, the light catching his fine silver locks so that he appears to be glowing.

Jon groans again, sitting up and rubbing insistently at his face. 

“The Queen looked positively chipper this morning,” Aegon mentions casually though it manages to pull Jon from his self-induced stupor. Once he knows he’s got Jon’s attention, Aegon grins. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with the sovereign’s good mood would you, dear brother?”

“I better,” Jon replies, voice harsh with sleep and disuse. 

Aegon claps Jon’s back. “She’s calling on you brother, to go horseback riding with the Lady Arya and the Lady Jeyne. Best get ready in your finest riding boots.”

Jon nods, hastily getting up from bed and calling on his valet to come assist in his dressing, the maid having since left after depositing fresh clothes and his breakfast. Aegon stands for a moment, grinning at him, no doubt at the absolutely idiotic expression Jon is no doubt wearing, and yet Jon still inquires what he’s so happy to see.

“You happy dear brother,” Aegon answers, turning towards the door. “Hurry though, you shouldn’t keep Her Majesty waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got around to writing this. Let me know your thoughts! It’s short but I’m notorious for not finishing works so I’m trying to keep chapter in bite sized pieces. Not beta’d so mistakes are mine. Thank you and enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a short Victoria AU that I’m going to try my best to keep updating. Please let me know your thoughts!! Not Beta’d so mistakes might occur.


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